The Green Burrito (Part One)

My grandson and I are at the White Sands Missile Range for their annual marathon honoring the Philippine Deathmarch of World War Two. If you don't know what that is, you should look it up. It's a heartbreaking story, and is especially interesting to me because my father was stationed in the Philippines during WWII.

     When General Douglas MacAthur was forced to leave the Philippines, abandoning American servicemen and Philippine citizens to the invading Japanese Army in the process, he promised he would return. My father was one of the many soldiers who retook the Island and made sure he could keep his word.

     I have family who live nearby, and one of my sisters offered us a place to stay.

     I asked my grandson, "Do you want to stay at a hotel or at your aunt's?"
     He look at me with his little five-year-old eyes, and answered, "Basically, I will stay at my aunt's and you can stay at the hotel."
     Basically?
     Funny kid.
     On our drive down, we stopped at a well-known hamburger franchise. I stopped there because, on an outside sign, it advertised: "The Green Burrito."
     "Hmm..." I thought to myself. "A green burrito. That sounds good."
     What I thought it was, was a chili verde burrito made using an organic tortilla.
     I made my way to the counter, and when the cashier asked me what I wanted, I ordered a green burrito.
     "A green what?" she said.
     "A green burrito," I repeated.
     "What's that?" she asked me.
     I lifted my arms--hands forward, palms up--in the international sign for you-tell-me.
     "I don't know," I had to admit, "but you're advertising it outside."
     "Ohhh!" she said. "The Green Burrito!"
     "Yes, a green burrito."
     "No," she explained, "it's not a green burrito, it's The Green Burrito."
     "Well, whatever it is," I told her, still not understanding, "I want one."
     After all this effort, I now knew that no matter what it was, I was going to be disappointed.
     "I'm sorry, sir," she apologized, "but it's not a green burrito."
     "Well... if your green burrito isn't a green burrito, then what is it?'"
     "It's the name of our special menu."
     What I didn't understand, and what she wasn't making clear, was that the hamburger franchise had a special menu that offered Mexican food, and they called this special menu The Green Burrito, as if it were a separate restaurant, and--you know what?--they didn't offer a chili verde burrito made using an organic tortilla.
     Yeah, I didn't understand it, either.
     Sometimes I'll look at my Dad, and then I'll look at the world, and I'll wonder, "Is it my Dad who's confused, or is it the world that's confusing him?" After my trouble ordering a green burrito that didn't exist, I'm inclined to think it's the world that's conspiring against those of us who are closer to the end of our days than the beginning.
     My grandson was happy with his burger and fries. Me, I was not as happy as he was. However, as long as my grandson is happy, I figure I came out ahead on the deal.
     We found our seats, and both began doing what we do best. In the case of my grandson, it's eating. In my case, it's people-watching.
     When you're out and about, you've probably seen and heard mothers bragging about their babies. They'll say how pretty their baby is, but, after sneaking a peek, you'll think to yourself, "Lady, what baby are you talking about?"
     This reminds me of a joke:
 

     The manager of a grocery store saw a lady crying as she pushed a baby stroller through the fruit section of his produce department. He goes up to her to see what's wrong.

     "Boohoo," the lady sobbed. "A man just told me I had an ugly baby."

     "Don't cry," the manager told her. "The man was a stupid jerk. I'm sure you have a beautiful baby."

     "I feel better now," she told him. "Thank you."

     "My pleasure," he said, "and here's a banana for your pet monkey."

 

    Well, there was a lady with a baby sitting in the booth next to us. She was cooing and sweet-talking the baby, saying, "Who's a pretty baby? Who's a pretty baby?"
     Meanwhile, another lady with another baby walked up to her. I don't know if they were friends, or even if they knew each other, but their infants gave them a bond. An annoying bond.
     "Oh," said the one, "your baby is soooo pretty!"
     "Oh," said the other, "your baby is soooo pretty, too!"

     They each spent the next few minutes telling each other how beautiful their babies were. I looked. Compared to my grandkids, their babies looked like something from Planet of the Apes. Then the one-upmanship started and they began bragging about their little changos.

     First lady: "My son is only six-months-old and he wears clothes for an eight-month-old."

     Second lady: "My son is barely five-months-old and he wear clothes for a one-year-old."

     First lady: "My son is already trying to turn over."

     Second lady: "My son is already trying to crawl."

     First lady: "My son already talks."

     Second Lady: "My son already reads."

     First lady: "My son has read The Bible from front to back."

     Second Lady: "My son has big feet, and you know what they say about big feet."

     From there, the tales got thick. Very thick.

     By then, my five-year-old grandson had finished his burger and fries, and I was done with my not-a-green-burrito. The two of us stood up to leave. Both ladies stopped talking to look at my grandson. I couldn't blame them. He's a cute kid. Their nosiness reminded me that they were within hearing distance.
     I held the car keys out to my grandson.
     "Do you mind driving?" I told him. "I'm tired."

     "Sure," he said, taking the keys from me, and we left.

   
 

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